July 2022
Bio Note: Everyday seems gray and rainy lately. My poetry lately reflects the bad weather and news of violence. I see many shades of green and a riot of spring flowers but it’s harder than usual to appreciate them, in part because I'm recovering from a successful knee replacement.
Yester-year
waves still sound
a heartbeat laps the shore
the wind still dances in the palms
on these islands
where jagged lava rocks
scale up a volcano
where sear clouds drench sun colors
at the start and close of day
but where has the abundance of spinner dolphins gone?
they used to play leapfrog in great pods
where did the numerous monk seals go
that once rested on warm white sand?
where are the countless birds of the rainforest
watching a skitter of geckos?
where are the lost species of birds
the Indian mongoose ate?
few nene goose remain
they are the rarest of geese in the world
what of the hoary bats
gathering insects in the night?
where’s the hawksbill sea turtle of the coral reefs
killed for decorative shells?
where is this place where no snakes live
and American names like Bishop & Stevens hiss?
where is the hump whale who sings
news of the ancestors?
what has colonization done to the natives of Hawaii
the residents of yesteryear?
Dear Putin
Putin, this conflict between nations is a never-ending story. When I was a girl of seven, I hid in my brothers’ room to write to your predecessor, Mr. Khrushchev. I penciled, “Dear Mr. Krushev, I love you. Please don't kill me and my family. We are nice. If you knew my parents, you would like us. We could be friends.”
You invade the Ukraine, Russian soldiers target civilians. Little Olena sees her mother die in a shelter. This motherless child wakes up in a hospital with her leg shot off. Her doctor reports, “She won’t eat or talk.”
Seven-year-old Olena is killed when her hospital is bombed. Staff wrap the small body in a hospital sheet. During a lull in the shelling, her body is placed in a mass grave with victims of all ages.
Olena’s father holds up two photos to a news camera. Tears roll down his cheeks, “I failed to protect my girls—my girls are dead.”
Putin, Olena’s blood sprinkles fuel on the ground. Love for land and people only burns hotter and brighter. You fan the fire that killed her.
Ukrainians retreat underground but they fight hard. Soldiers pop out like moles from a hole, run between houses, toss a grenade. One man can stop a Russian tank.
In disbelief from the mass grave, a young girl looks at you long, Putin, in a kind of longing.
Yours Truly,
A Cold War Woman
©2022 Ingrid Bruck
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